A Little Protective and a Little Bit Pissed
by Lear's Daughter
Summary: Episode tag to The Maltese Falcon Job. Written for a leverageland challenge.


Disclaimer: I don't own _Leverage_.

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Eliot grunts as he heaves himself into the air duct. It's a tight fit, and for a moment claustrophobia overpowers him. He has to remain still, taking deep breaths in and out, until the hammering of his heart subsides.

He crawls along the tunnel, painfully aware of the noise he's making every time one of his elbows—or his head—bangs into a side of the metal duct. He's a hitter, built like a wall, not like Parker, who weighs about the same as a flamingo. He's not made for this kind of work.

He adjusts the mining light on his head and turns it on, wincing at the sudden brightness. He holds his hand in front of the light, cursing when he sees that sweat has made the ink on his palm smudge and run. He can barely make out the crude map he drew there using an old schematic of the hospital that he'd found in the drawer where Parker keeps floor plans to most major buildings in Boston.

He wishes fleetingly for an earbud. This would be so much easier with Hardison to guide him, even if he had to put up with the other man's whiny bitching the whole time.

It's slow going. Painful enough to make him almost regret being part of a team. Working alone had always been easy. Traveling the world, relying on himself, no one to worry about or to hold him accountable.

Being part of a team is damn hard work. He has to worry that the others are safe—and none of them try to make it easy for him, oh no, throwing themselves into harm's way like they think they're invincible or something. He has to put up with having a conscience, something he'd regretfully tossed away over a decade ago and never expected to get back. And, most difficult of all, he has to accept that some things are out of his control. He has to trust his teammates to be as good at what they do as he is at what he does.

Most of the time, they live up to that trust. It's the times they don't that drive him apeshit. Like now.

By the time he's wormed his way to the right room, he's hot and his hair is a mess and he's ready to kill someone. He's almost disappointed when he tumbles ungracefully out of the air duct and finds that the room is empty, except for the man on the bed.

Eliot runs his hands through his hair and straightens his shirt. He reaches into his small black duffle bag and pulls out a white doctor's coat, which he shrugs into, and a stethoscope, which he hangs around his neck. He shoves the duffle bag into a corner, grabs the single visitor's chair, whirls it around so the back is facing the bed, and straddles it.

At first he looks everywhere but at the man on the bed. His keen eyes take in the heart monitor, beeping steadily, the morphine drip, the fluorescent lights that make the room feel like a holding cell.

He's wasting time. He makes himself look at the person his eyes have been avoiding.

The older man is unconscious. His face is drawn with pain, despite the morphine. He's wearing a baby blue hospital gown, and his wrists are in restraints.

Eliot finds himself glaring.

"Damn you, Nate," he snarls.

He leaps to his feet, shoves the chair aside, mindful even in his anger not to let it fall and make too much noise. He paces.

"Oh, yeah, I knew you were shot," he snaps, as if Nate were awake and arguing. He knows the protestations Nate would make if he could, just as he knows that none of them excuse what Nate did. "I'm a hitter, you think I can't tell when someone's hurt?"

He wants to punch something. Since punching a wall would make too much noise, he sinks his fist into the thin mattress beside Nate's head, shaking the bed frame.

Nate murmurs, his head flops to one side, and he starts to snore.

"Okay," Eliot mutters, getting himself under control. "Okay." He begins to pace again. "I didn't tell the others, if that's what you're wondering. They'd'a leapt out of that helicopter to come to your rescue if they'd known. Hell, I'd have done it myself if it hadn't been my job to get them out of there."

He shoots Nate a scowl. "I did get them out, by the way. They're safe, where Sterling can't touch 'em. Unlike some people."

He clenches his teeth. "I don't like it when people run cons on their own teams. I didn't like it when Sophie did it, and I hate that you did it to us."

He leans over Nate's bed. Seeing him like this makes Eliot's chest hurt. He's seen Nate shot before, but that doesn't make it any easier. He swears to himself that this'll be the last time.

"I'm a retrieval specialist, and I ain't giving up on you," he tells Nate. "We're going to get you out. But the next time I see you, you're gonna get what's coming to you."

Having achieved what he came here to do—yell at Nate, make sure he was going to live, and threaten him—Eliot pulls back and runs his hands through his hair again. He walks to the door, opens it.

Two FBI agents blink at him in bafflement. He contorts his face into a passable smile.

"Well, boys, looks like he's going to make it. Now, remember what Agent Nevins said—you guard this door with your life, and make sure nobody goes in there who doesn't belong. Got it?"

The agents stare. Eliot sighs inwardly. It's government officials like this who make him and his team necessary. "I said, got it?"

"Uh, yes, sir," one of the agents says.

Eliot nods curtly. He walks away. It's a struggle not to look back.


End file.
